


Barking Mad

by barghest



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Animal Death, Bastard Hannibal, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-14
Updated: 2013-07-14
Packaged: 2017-12-20 04:24:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/882907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barghest/pseuds/barghest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will's family starts to disappear in the dead of night, and it seems like the Chesapeake Ripper knows more about Will than anyone previously imagined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Barking Mad

**Author's Note:**

> holy crap hello  
> uh okay first off youre allowed to think im a horrible person after this fuckin fic because its terrible and awful and yeah. please don't read if you are going to cry over animals dying and dont like the inevitable fridge horror!! this is inspired by a prompt my friend gave me; "Will finds a recipe for dog (it’s eaten in China I think?) in one of Hannibal’s cookbooks (he has a big library thing right)." the recipe referenced within is a real filipino recipe. also this thing is formatted to work on tumblr so if the paragraphs look really small then im sorry :( also its quite short. one last thing - i love dogs, i love my dogs, i would never intentionally hurt a dog in real life, etc etc.  
> enjoy (???)

It’s Winston’s whining that wakes Will first. The damp sheets curl around his fists as his grip tightens to ease him upright, and he loosens one hand to ruffle the dog’s hackles in an attempt to flatten them back down. Winston plants his paws across Will’s abdomen, raising his voice to an anguished howl, wet eyes watching the storm rage outside the window. One of the smaller dogs joins in, wriggling up onto the bed to stand beside Winston, leaning on Will’s thigh. Will extends his other hand to stroke the dog’s shoulder, shushing them quietly in between their escalating voices. Lightning crackles through the clouds and singes a tree in the distance, as the rest of Will’s canine family join in. Will raises his voice to try and calm them, but the swirling cacophony of voices doesn’t listen and, as he counts their shaggy pelts and twitching ears, he notices he is one dog short.

Fading headlights escape down the dirt road under the cover of the rain, and the pack mourns.

—

"How many dogs is it that you have, Will?," Hannibal pours the wine - a rich red variety, that darkens Will’s pale expression on its surface when he lifts it to take a long drink - before seating himself at the table. Will is folded into the chair on the other side, looking rather more like a pile of tired clothing than a person. He runs a hand through his hair, staring at the food in front of him as if it would answer for him. It doesn’t, so Will puls himself upright and picks up his knife and fork.

"Seven," Will takes a stab at the cubes of meat on his plate, “well, six now, I suppose." He falls into silence, pushing the cubes around a little in a vague attempt to get a better coating of the pate on them. Spearing one, he places it into his mouth, fork clinking against his teeth, and chews thoughtfully for a moment. “What is this, by the way?"

Hannibal smiles a little, swallowing a chunk of his own meal, “lamb. Prepared in a Filipino style, with red peppers, tabasco, liver pate and," he gestures to some of the more rectangular shapes in his own dish, “pineapple. I have been experimenting a little."

"I don’t think I have tasted lamb like this before," Will holds a cube up to inspect it slightly, before devouring it. Between that and the haggard look dragging his face even more down than normal, Hannibal correctly deduces it’s been a day or so since Will last ate.

"It is hard to come by this tender," the psychiatrist carefully - and liberally - covers a cube of lamb with pate, before delicately popping it into his mouth. He mulls it over with his tongue, as if individually tasting and identifying every seasoning he has graced the meat with, before swallowing almost reluctantly. Sipping his wine, he scrapes the pate on his knife off on another chunk and starts anew. “You have to get ahold of it very fresh. Now, Will, which of your dogs disappeared?"

—

Jack Crawford causes Will’s mobile to explode at nine minutes to five in the morning, and it instantly sets the remaining dogs off. They pile onto the better, dribbling angry slobber and white fangs all over Will’s collarbones as he wrestles his pillow to get ahold of his phone. It slips through his sweaty fingers and under Winston’s foot, who somehow presses the button to answer the call. Crawford’s voice barks along with the dogs, snapping Will into full consciousness.

"Will, this is urgent," at the other end of the line, Crawford juggles his mobile, a flashlight, and the pair of disposable gloves that a member of forensics tosses in his direction on they way past. “We need you down here right now."

"What is it," Will gently pushes Winston off his mobile in enough time to catch the end of Crawford’s message, running out of hands to calm dogs with.

"The Chesapeake Ripper is back," the clack of Jack’s teeth betray the urgency of the situation, and Will swings his legs off of his bed. “And it seems he’s left a personal message for you, Will."

“What?”

—

The fur curled around the body’s neck is soft and freshly washed to the touch. Will leans close enough, almost pressing his nose into the pelt, to allow himself to assaulted by the scent of it; distant dog musk and gun powder, olive oil and - most bizarrely - faint traces of pet shampoo. He rocks back on his heels, face wrinkling with distaste, and tries to distract himself with surveying the rest of the corpse.

"They took the liver," Beverly Katz offers over his shoulder, dusting an out of sight object for prints. “Well, he took the liver, if Crawford wants to go down that route. All the same, the same precise anatomical knowledge was applied here, and it’s likely that the victim died from bleeding out," she points her brushover Will’s head at the large Y-shaped incision - reminiscent of an autospy. “The canine skin was placed there post-mortem, and there’s not signs of strangulation. However, we did find this in the place of the liver."

Will swivels slowly, heels digging into the previously cream carpet, to stare at what is in Beverly’s hands with disbelieve: a collar.

—

The aroma filling the room bothers Will a little, but he says nothing, staring unfocussed at the array of finely sharpened knives Hannibal keeps on his kitchen counter. Outside the window, an owl hoots quietly.

"Another one went last night," Will pushes his glasses up his nose and wipes nervous sweat away from his eyebrows with his index finger. “I don’t know what’s happening. The rest of the family," he coughs drily, “the dogs are all stirred up." He crumples a little further into the chair Hannibal has drawn up for him, flaking a little like badly made pastry. The Danish pastry of Hannibal’s own creation, currently cooling on a cake rack to one side, are much better constructed in comparison.

"Are you stirred up, Will?," Hannibal does not take his eyes off of the wok in front of him. “Please pass me the onions." Will obliges, peeling himself out of his seat long enough to push the board of neatly chopped onions towards Hannibal. They are drizzled into the wok, dancing and sizzling under Hannibal’s watchful eye.

"I think so," Will mumbles, studying the worm fabric of his jeans where they breach his knees.

"Perhaps you are affecting them and causing them to keep acting up," Hannibal spears a chunk of pineapple with his fork, depositing it into his mouth, before pushing the rest into the mixture in front of him. “They are attuned to your behaviors, Will. They know something is worrying you." Will makes a huffing noise under his breath and bites at one of his fingernails.

"But someone is getting into my home, my own home," he stresses, trying to bury his agitation in his lap, hands tucking up into his sleeves. “That’s an invasion. They don’t feel safe."

"You don’t feel safe, Will," the bones in Hannibal’s wrist twist as he flips some of the chunks of meat over in the wok, flames licking around the sides dangerously close to his apron. “Perhaps you left a window or a door open? Double checking matters. That will help you." He sets the wok down for a moment, and cleans his hands on a tea towel. “I hate to ask you to leave, Will, but I am expecting guests soon for dinner." He opens the fridge and takes out a tupperware container and turns to press it into Will’s hands. “Here are some of the left overs from the other night. Perhaps your dogs might like a little treat?"

—

Beverly Katz holds the second dog collar up to the light, squinting slightly at the frayed stitching around where the ring was attached. Like the first, it is made of leather and well worn, dried canine sweat and skin particles clinging to the underside, from continued wear. Half of it is coated in dried blood, caking slightly where it had concealed after the death of the body it had been found in.

"Seems odd for the Chesapeake Ripper to take the same organ twice, doesn’t it?," she turns to look at Crawford as she spoke, watching him pour over photos from the crime scene. He doesn’t look up, preferring instead to lay the top photo aside and scrutinize the next one.

"Odd though it may be," he speaks a moment later, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, “I am trusting Will on this. He says it’s the Chesapeake Ripper, and the evidence points to precisely that."

"How long is he going to hold out, thought?," Beverly’s eyes wander over to the white dog pelt that is stretched out on one of the examination tables. a small hole in the fur between its eyes marring the otherwise perfect skin.

"Will?"

"Well, things are getting a little personal."

Jack shrugs. “We’ll see."

—

The rain batters Will’s windows again all through the night, the hammering pace matched only by his own shivering. The dogs whimper and cling around him, tails knotting with his limbs whenever he seems to get too cold. Winston sets his head on Will’s shoulder, nosing the man’s damp curls in an attempt at comforting him. Beady eyes watch him all night, with as much concern as a dog could muster.

Will does not sleep.

When the rain abates, and the sun starts to creep through the clouds and slither into the house, Will lets them out for a quick run. He stumbles wearily after them, dark patches on his grey shirt from sweat and wet dog noses, but they don’t go very far. Instead, the remaining five do their business within a few meters of the house and come back to swarm worriedly around his legs until he moves to go back inside.

A shower and a cup of coffee later, he remembers Hannibal’s small gift and retrieves it from the fridge. Perking up at the sight of food, five tails start to wag, so Will lowers himself to the ground and feeds those who sit nicely chunks of the lamb from a few nights ago. He eats the pineapple for breakfast, patting the heads that bobbed around his chair, before passing out on the table, tupperware container pushed safed out of the way.

—

"Come in," Hannibal gestures Will through to his kitchen, “although may we leave them in my living room?" Will nods feverishly, herding his dogs - all four on the ends of leads - into Hannibal’s immaculately front room, before kneeling down to stroke their fur and individually assure them, growling under his breath. They sit or lie down obediently, muddying the carpet with their paws. Hannibal chooses to ignore this, instead gesturing Will through to his kitchen, and moves to pull a chair out for him.

"Another went this morning," Will tries to remain upright, but eventually crumbles, fragmenting into the chair pulled out for him. He sheds his jacket, and fumbles to push the zip on the hoodie underneath down. “I was asleep for half an hour. I." He wrestles the zipper down, and casts off his hoodie. “I don’t know what’s happening. It’s the Ripper, though. It has to be him." Wearing a concerned expression, Hannibal places a cup of tea in front of him and gestures for him to drink it. He takes a shaky sip, spilling a little onto his thigh and hissing slightly in pain. Hannibal takes the cup off of him and places it back down on a saucer on the table, before placing a familiar looking dish in front of him. “He’s behind this, he knows I’m looking into his case," Will squints at the dish, “isn’t this the lamb dish again?"

"Indeed," Hannibal seats himself across the table, and begins his methodical process of coating his meat in the liver pate that is part of the marinade. “You do not look like you have been eating, Will. You are not thinking straight."

"But it has to be the Ripper," Will protests, gesturing with his fork - before caving enough to eat a couple of cubes of the meat, and some pineapple. “He knows. You have been to see the photos? You’ve see the evidence?"

"Yes, Will. Do eat." Will complies for a few more mouthfuls.

"I don’t know what he wants to tell me yet. There’s definitely a message," Will’s fork clinks against something in his meal, and he frowns slightly. Pushing the meat over, he lifts the small rectangle of metal up to read the inscription in the soft light bathing Hannibal’s kitchen.

WINSTON  
if found, please return  
to will graham  
—-/—-/——

Will drops the tag with a wet plop back into his food, and, out in the living room, the howling begins again.


End file.
